Joey’s blade drove into Waters’s gut just under his ribs and angled upward to pierce the officer’s heart. The two men, gladiators from a war long past, stood there, chest to chest for a moment, until light and hatred faded from Waters’s eyes, and he fell dead before the last of the Missouri Volunteers.
Murdock saw they were losing the battle and shouted at Vasquez, “Emilio, let’s get out of here!”
The two men, who had managed to stay on the periphery of the gunfight, wheeled their horses and galloped back toward the Lazy M. They were able to escape Smoke’s trap only because of the heavy layer of smoke and dust in the air. By the time the men in the boulders saw them coming, they were out of range of their shotguns.
The fracas lasted another twenty minutes before all the gunnies were either dead or wounded badly enough to be out of commission.
It was full dark by now, and the punchers in the cabin lighted torches, joined with men from the trees and boulders, and began to gather their wounded and dead. The injured who worked for Smoke were brought into the cabin and were attended to by André and the others. Their gunshot wounds were cleaned and dressed and they were given hot soup and coffee, and for those in pain, whiskey.
Smoke bent over Monte Carson, checking his bandages to make sure they were tight. Carson drifted in and out of consciousness, but Smoke was sure he would survive.
André fussed over Louis’s leg wound, cleaning and recleaning it until finally Louis said, “Just put a dressing on it, André, there’s others here who need you more than I do.”
Smoke glanced at Louis, a worried look on his face. “Have you seen Cal or Pearlie or Joey, Louis?”
Louis looked up quickly. “Aren’t they here?”
Smoke shook his head. “No.”
Louis struggled to his feet, using a rifle as a cane. “Let’s go, they may be lying out there wounded”—he glanced at Smoke, naked fear in his eyes—“or worse.”
The two men walked among the dead and dying outlaws, ignoring cries for help and mercy as they looked for their friends. The outlaws deserved no mercy. They had taken money to kill others and would now have to face the consequences of their actions. A harsh judgment, but a just one.
Finally, Smoke spied the horse Pearlie had been riding, standing over near a small creek that ran off to the side of the cabin. “Over here,” he called to Louis, and ran toward the animal, praying he would find the young men alive.
He stopped short at what he saw. Joey, his left shoulder wrapped in his bloodstained shirt, was trying to dress Pearlie’s neck and stomach wounds, but Pearlie wouldn’t let go of Cal to give him access. The young cowboy had one hand holding his wadded-up shirt against a hole in Cal’s flank to stop the bleeding, while he held his Colt in the other, hammer back, protecting his young friend from anyone else who might try to harm him.
Smoke heard Joey say, “Come on, Pearlie, the fight’s over. Let me take care of where ya got shot, then we kin git Cal over to the cabin fer treatment.”
Pearlie shook his head. “I’m not movin’ from here till I see Smoke. I promised him I was gonna watch over Cal, and I aim to do just that!”
Smoke chuckled as Louis hobbled up beside him. “Would you look at that, Louis. Like a mother hen with her chick.”
Louis grinned. “If I ever find a woman who’ll take care of me like that, I’ll give up gambling and settle down.”
“Pearlie, you’ve done a good job,” Smoke said as he knelt by Cal. “Now let Joey fix you up while I take Cal to the cabin so André can patch his wounds.”
Pearlie lifted fatigue-ridden eyes to stare at Smoke. “Smoke, you got him?”
Smoke lifted Cal in his arms. “Yes, Pearlie, I’ve got him.”
Pearlie mumbled, “Good,” then let his pistol fall to the dirt and passed out.
* * *
The next morning, after the doctor from Pueblo had been summoned and he had come to the cabin to do what he could, Smoke and his friends sat around a campfire outside, the cabin being used to house the wounded.
“Well, we didn’t do near as bad as I feared,” Joey said. “We lost seven good men, and another eight will be a long time recovering.”
He took his fixin’s out and built himself a cigarette, sticking it in the side of his mouth and lighting it. He upended his coffee cup and drained it without removing the butt. “I’m damned sorry to lose Ben Tolson.” He raised his head and looked at Smoke. “He was a fine man, one any man would be proud to call partner!”
“He’d do to ride the river with,” Smoke said. These were two of the best compliments a westerner could give another cowboy.
Joey said, “If’n it’s all right with you and the others, I’d like ta give his widow a share of the Rocking C. He earned it.”
Smoke nodded. “He damn sure did. From what I’m told, if he hadn’t stopped that last rider, he would’ve burned the entire cabin down and all the men with it.”
Cal was lying on a makeshift cot before the fire, spooning down some of André’s beef stew as fast as he could. He cut his eyes over to look at the bandage around Pearlie’s gut. Though thin as a rail, Pearlie was a famous chowhound, being known to eat everything that wasn’t tied down.
“Pearlie,” Cal said with an innocent look in his eyes, “did I hear the doctor correct when he said if you didn’t have that layer of fat around yore middle, you would’ve had a serious wound?”
“Yeah,” Pearlie said, a suspicious tone to his voice. “So?”
Cal grinned. “So, I guess you can thank Miss Sally for savin’ yore life, what with all the bear sign she makes that you scarf down.” He winked at Smoke. “I guess no one will kid you anymore ’bout that gut around yore middle.”
Pearlie looked down. “What gut? I don’t have no gut!” He glanced back over at Cal, trying to look mean. “And if you didn’t have this unnatural affection for lead, neither one of us would’ve gotten shot!”
After a few minutes Joey said, “Smoke, I’ve checked all the bodies, an’ I don’t see no sign of Murdock nor of Vasquez.”
“I know. One of the boys you assigned to the boulders, Billy Joe I think it was, said right at the end a couple of riders got past them, headed back toward Murdock’s place.”
Joey struggled to his feet, unable to use his left arm because of the sling the doctor had put on it. “Well, no need to waste any time. I’m goin’ after ’em ’fore they have time to split.”
Smoke got up and brushed dirt off the seat of his pants. “I’m coming too. I got a score to settle for Puma Buck.”
As the others started to rise, Smoke held out his hand. “No, boys. Joey and I started this alone, and we’re going finish it alone.” He smiled at his wounded friends. “Thanks for the offer, but this trail is ours and we have to ride it all the way to the end.”
Chapter 23
Smoke walked over to talk to Louis while one of the uninjured hands threw a saddle on Red and Horse.
“Louis, there’s something I want you to do for me while we’re over at Murdock’s, settling things.”
Louis looked up. “Anything, Smoke, as long as it doesn’t include dancing.” He tapped the large bandage André had wrapped around his leg. “I’m not too spry on my feet just yet.”
“Oh, I think you will enjoy this little errand. You can even take the buckboard, with a pillow for your leg if need be.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, I’d like you to ride into Pueblo and pick something up for me. I had Ben send a wire to Big Rock last time we were in town, and the . . . package ought to have arrived on today’s train.”
A slow smile curled Louis’s lips. “I hope this package is what I think it is.”
Smoke grinned. “Here’s what I want you to do ...”
Shotgun Sam Willowby and Gimpy Monroe were stuffing their faces and filling their guts at the hotel dining room in Pueblo with their horses packed and loaded outside for the long ride back to New Mexico.
Two pretty, young blond women accompanied by a small
boy walked into the hotel. As they sat down at a table across the room and ordered lunch, Shotgun Sam glanced around. They were the only patrons, since the dining hour had passed already.
He nudged Gimpy with his elbow. “Hey, Gimpy. What say we stroll on over there and say howdy?” The killer raised his eyebrows in a lewd grin. “We might git lucky an’ knock off a piece or two of that fine-lookin’ woman flesh.”
Gimpy scowled. “You a randy old coot, Shotgun. Man o’ yore age ought not be thinkin’ with his dick all the time.”
Shotgun spread his arms. “What’ve we got to lose? The sheriff’s out there shootin’ it up with Murdock and his gang.” His grin turned even more evil. “Who’s to stop us from whatever we want to do?”
Gimpy cut his eyes toward the women. He nodded as he chewed his steak. “You’re right, an’ they is right purty at that.”
Shotgun added, “An’ we gonna be a long time on the trail ’fore we git another chance like this. Let’s do it.”
Shotgun Sam picked up the Greener he was never without, hitched his belt over his fat gut, and swaggered over to the table where the ladies sat.
The pair of outlaws stood a few feet in front of their table, hands on hips.
“Howdy, ladies,” Shotgun said. “My pardner and me was wonderin’ if’n maybe you’d like to come up to our room an’ have a little drink of whiskey with us.” He tried a smile, revealing dirty yellow teeth.
Sally Jensen glanced up, then smiled, her beauty striking in the afternoon sunlight from the window. “I don’t think so, cowboy. We’re married ladies in town to meet our husbands.”
Gimpy looked around at the empty room and shrugged. “I don’t see no menfolk here. Seems a man shouldn’t oughta neglect pretty girls like you two.”
Betty Wells, who had grown up around men like these, was less refined and gracious than Sally. She gave the pair a scornful look and said, “Get lost, white trash, ’fore my husband comes in here and makes you wish you’d never been born.”
Sally raised her napkin to her face to hide her smile at Betty’s earthy way of talking.
Shotgun’s face flamed red and he snorted through his nose. “Don’t try an’ git uppity with me, you bitch!” He eared back the hammers on his Greener with a loud double-click. “I asked ya nice, now I’m tellin’ ya, git yore butt up and come with me or I’ll have to scatter ya all over the room!”
Sally leaned back in her chair, a small smile curling the corners of her lips. She looked at Betty and winked where the men couldn’t see it. “Sure, mister. Is it okay if we powder our noses first?”
Gimpy laughed a nasty laugh. “You can powder anything you want long as you hurry it up.”
Sally nodded at Betty and glanced at their purses sitting on the floor. “Why don’t you get your powder out, Betty, for these nice gentlemen?”
Betty grinned. “That’s a right good idea, Sally.”
The ladies picked up their purses and laid them on the table in front of them, snapped open the clasps, and put their hands inside at the same time.
With beautiful, sexy smiles, both Betty and Sally looked up at Shotgun and Gimpy and pulled the triggers on the short-barreled pistols both of them carried.
Their guns exploded, blowing out the bottoms of the purses, then blowing Shotgun and Gimpy back across the room, smoking holes in the middle of their chests.
The outlaws kicked and thrashed for a moment, then lay still.
The manager of the hotel came running into the room, a Colt in his hand. “You ladies all right?” he yelled.
Sally put her purse back on the floor, wiped her lips daintily with her napkin, and said, “Yes, sir, but could I have another cup of coffee, please?”
Betty looked over at him, smiling. “And could I see the dessert menu? Little Tom has been waiting all day for some cake, if you have any.”
* * *
Smoke put a hand on Joey’s arm and helped him climb up on Red, then he stepped into the saddle on Horse. They rode off toward the Lazy M and Murdock and Vasquez at an easy canter.
After a few miles Smoke noticed fresh blood on Joey’s shoulder and a tight grimace of pain on his lips.
“This ride too much for your wound, Joey? If it is, we can go back and wait a few days for the wound the doc stitched to knit together.”
Joey shook his head, looking straight ahead. “I want to end this business, Smoke. All my life it seems I’ve been livin’ with hate, first during the war, then after, when I was chasin’ Redlegs.” He took a deep breath. “The only time I’ve been at peace was with Betty, and then when little Tom came I thought my life was complete and all that anger was behind me.”
He pulled a plug of Bull Durham out and bit off the end. As he chewed, he talked. “Since Vasquez and his men rode into my life, I’ve found all that hate and more back in my heart.” He looked over at Smoke. “At first I thought I’d missed all the excitement of the chase, an’ the killin’. But I’ve found that the hate festers inside of ya, an’ I’m afraid if I don’t git shut of it soon, I won’t be fit ta go back to Betty. She’s just too fine a woman ta have ta live with a man all eat up inside with hate an’ bitterness.”
Smoke smiled gently. “I don’t think you, or Betty and Tom, have to worry about that, Joey. You’ve just been doing what any man would do, fighting to protect your family and your home.” He slowed Horse and bent his head to light a cigar. When he had it going good, he caught up with Joey. “When you see the end of Vasquez, and Murdock, things’ll go back like they were. The only hate I can see inside you is anger at the men who hurt your loved ones, and that’s a good thing. A man who won’t stand up for his family is no good.”
Joey gave a tight grin. “You ought to be a preachin’ man, Smoke. You sure know the right things ta say.”
Smoke laughed until he choked on his cigar smoke. After he finished coughing, he said, “Now, that’s a picture to think on, Smoke Jensen, holding Sunday revivals.”
They stopped at the riverbed and watered their mounts in one of the small pools. “What are you going to do about the river once this is over?” Joey asked.
Smoke gave him a look he didn’t quite understand, and said, “Oh, I think I’ll leave that to the new ramrod of the Rocking C. It’ll be his decision to make.”
* * *
Another hour of easy riding brought them to the outskirts of the Lazy M. In the distance they could see two horses tied up to a hitching rail near the corral, away from the house. Smoke pulled Puma Buck’s Sharps .52 from his saddle boot and began to walk toward a group of trees about a hundred yards from the house, keeping the trees between him and the house so Murdock and Vasquez wouldn’t be able to see him coming.
Joey walked alongside, carrying a Henry repeating rifle in his right hand, hammer thong loose on his Colt.
Murdock was in his study, down on hands and knees in front of his safe, shoveling wads of currency into a large leather valise.
He and Vasquez had arrived back at his ranch at three in the morning and had taken a short nap, planning to leave the territory early the next morning. They slept longer than intended and were now hurrying to make up for lost time.
Vasquez was sitting at Murdock’s desk, his feet up on the leather surface, a bottle of Murdock’s bourbon in one hand and one of his hand-rolled cigars in the other.
“What you do now, Señor Murdock? Where you go?”
Murdock looked back over his shoulder, his hands full of cash. “I plan to head up into Montana. There’s still plenty of wild country up there, a place where a man with plenty of money, and the right help, can still carve out a good ranch.”
“What about Emilio?” Vasquez asked, his right hand inching toward his machete. He was looking at the amount of cash in the safe, thinking it would last a long time in Mexico. He could change his name, maybe grow a beard, and live like a king for the rest of his life.
Murdock noticed the way Vasquez was eyeing his money, so he pulled a Colt out of the safe and pointed it at the Mexi
can. “Just keep your hands where I can see ’em, Emilio. I was planning on taking you with me, I can always use a man like you.” He raised his eyebrows. “But now I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. I don’t want to have to sleep with one eye open all the way to Montana to keep you from killing me and taking my money.”
Vasquez smiled, showing all his teeth. “But, señor, you have nothing to fear from Emilio. I work for you always.”
Murdock opened his mouth to answer, when he heard a booming explosion from in front of his house and a .52-caliber slug plowed through his front wall, tore through a chest of drawers, and continued on to embed itself in a rear wall.
Murdock and Vasquez threw themselves on the floor behind his desk, Vasquez spilling bourbon all over both of them in the process.
“Chinga . . . ”Vasquez grunted.
“Jesus!” said Murdock.
Smoke hollered to the house, “Murdock, Vasquez. Come out with your hands up and you can go on living... at least until the people of Pueblo hang you.”
The two outlaws looked at each other under the desk. “What do you think?” Murdock asked.
Vasquez shrugged. “Not much choice, is it? I think I rather get shot than hang. You?”
Murdock nodded. “Maybe I can buy our way out.”
Vasquez gave a short laugh. “Señor, you not know man very well. Jensen and Wells not want money, they want our blood.”
Murdock didn’t believe him. Everyone wanted money. It was what made the world go round. “Jensen, Wells. I’ve got twenty thousand in here, in cash. It’s yours if you turn your backs and let us ride out of here!” Murdock called.
His answer was another .52-caliber bullet tearing through the walls of his ranch house. It seemed nothing would stop the big Sharps slugs.
Murdock said, “I guess you’re right.”
Vasquez answered, “Besides, after they kill us, they take money anyway.”
Murdock scrabbled on hands and knees to the wall, where he took his Winchester ’73 rifle down off a rack. He grabbed a Henry and pitched it across the room to Vasquez. “Here, let’s start firing back. Maybe we’ll get lucky. ”
Honor of the Mountain Man Page 24
